The Brilliant Light of Morning
by Jane Krahe
Summary: A series of lemony oneshots,showing how Dean and Castiel's relationship developed over Season 4. Yes, it's slash, and rated for a reason! COMPLETE!
1. Chapter 1

_**Disclaimer:** I do not own Supernatural, or the Winchester boys, though I do think I have a collar that would fit Dean nicely __**; )**__. I make no money from this. _

_**A/N:** This will be a series of one-shots, chronicling the progression of Dean and Castiel's relationship. I'm a slash virgin, so please be gentle!_

_**A/N/N:** Also, I know that I previously had a story here entitled "Bloody Sunday". Yes, I have deleted it. Why, you may ask? Honestly, as I wrote more chapters, I began to greatly dislike my OC. Further proof, if I needed any, that my stories evolve independent of me. And if __I_ _didn't like my OC, how could I possibly expect Dean to? Right? Then, I began re-watching the fourth season, and realized that there were innumerable possible slash scenes between Dean and Castiel. I decided to explore these by inserting them into the episodes. Of course, this may sometimes require me to alter canon, so if there are any changes in dialogue from the episodes, I probably did it on purpose. I hope I don't screw up too badly. Loves, Jane_

4 - 02: Are You There God, It's Me Dean Winchester

Dean lay on the floor in Bobby's study, reeling from the days events. He'd been a hunter for as long as he could remember. And of course, he'd never liked losing people. You can't save everyone; that's a cold, hard fact, one Dean faced everyday.

But seeing their faces, hearing their accusing voices, filled with such raw anger... he'd never really wondered what it felt like to not be saved.

Granted, Sam hadn't saved him from Hell. But that was different. In allowing himself to get dragged into the pit, Dean was actually _saving _Sam, saving him from succumbing to the dark forces inside him, to the pull of the other side. So he'd never been angry with Sam. How could he? He'd practically ordered the poor boy to watch him die. In fact, if Dean felt anything about his death, it was guilt over making Sam witness it.

Guilt was something Dean was utterly familiar with. It was washing over him in waves now, as Henrikson's and Ronald's faces rolled over his vision. He'd really liked them. He'd liked Ronald immediately, could appreciate the fervor with which the awkward man had approached his "man-droid" hunt. If he'd had the time, if Ronald had survived, Dean would have seriously considered training him to be a hunter.

It was the same with Henrikson. He'd adamantly denied the existence of the supernatural; had called Dean and Sam crazy, made a few remarks about their father that had Dean seeing red, yet after all that, when Hell stared him in the face, his only question was "How do we fight?" Dean had admired that about him. It's good to be practical sometimes. And Dean had subconsciously begun planning training sessions with the agent, even as they fought off thirty demons, hoping that when it was all over, they may have another ally in the never-ending war.

But Meg... Meg there was no excuse for.

Dean didn't kill Ronald. He didn't kill Henrikson. But he _did _kill Meg. He had her thrown out a window, then had knowingly and deliberately exorcised the demon from her, knowing she would die. And seeing her as she was before, seeing how innocent and sweet she'd been before Azazel's spawn had gotten to her, it made Dean sick. And hearing about her sister... Dean wondered, not for the first time, if he was truly destined for Hell. Sure, he'd helped a few people. But he'd also done terrible things, he was sin on two legs, and he couldn't help the nagging thought that, with or without a demon deal, Dean Winchester was headed for the pit.

Without warning, his hunter's instincts flared up, and Dean felt a quiet rush of air, and a presence in the next room. He knew, instantly, without really knowing _how _he knew, that it was Castiel, that damned angel.

Dean stood, saw Castiel's silhouetted against the window above the sink. He was leaning against it, hands on the counter, as if were the most normal thing in the world. As Dean took a few steps forward, he heard the angel say in the odd, low voice of his, "Good job with the witnesses."

That pissed Dean off. _Nothing _about his job had been good. "You were hip to all this?" he demanded, keeping his voice low.

"I was - made aware."

"Oh. Well, thanks for the heavenly assistance. You know, I almost got my heart ripped outta my chest." Dean gestured angrily to his chest, where his heart lay under his black tank top.

"But you didn't."

Castiel's calm tone only served to infuriate Dean more. Though, intellectually, Dean knew that wasn't really the problem. He was tired, in pain - both emotional and physical - and thoroughly unsettled by the angel's presence. He smelled fresh and cold, like if frozen pine needles had a smell, and it rolled off him in waves, making the air around him cooler. As Dean moved closer, he could feel it tingling across his skin, the power that Castiel exuded. All of this only made Dean angrier.

"You know," he began, voice rough, "I thought angels were supposed to be guardians. Fluffy wings, halos - Michael Landon. Not dicks."

There was a tiny pause, and for an instant Dean thought maybe he'd offended the angel. Then, Castiel said, "Read the Bible. Angels are warriors of God. I'm a soldier."

"Yeah? Then why didn't you fight?" It incensed Dean, how easily they could have won if they'd had an angel on their side.

"I'm not here to perch on your shoulder, Dean." As he spoke Castiel reached out, and his fingertips brushed Dean's collar bone. Dean shuddered away from the touch, disturbed by the aura of cool power the angel wore. Castiel withdrew and continued, "We had larger concerns."

"Concerns?" Dean took a step forward. "There are people getting torn to shreds down here! And by the way, while all this is going on, where the Hell is your boss? If there _is _a God."

Castiel head dipped lower, his blue eyes boring into Dean's. "There's a God," he said, the weight in his words the only hint that Dean had offended him.

"I'm not convinced," Dean said, felling a smirk threatening to roll over his lips. Jesus, he was actually enjoying baiting an angel. He was definitely Hell-bound, contract or none. He knew he should stop, that this creature was powerful and unknown, and could kill him with a thought, but dammit, it felt to good to get it off his chest. "If there is a God, what is he waiting for, huh? Genocide, monsters roaming the earth, the frickin' apocalypse?" It was everything he'd been thinking since discovering that divine intervention lay behind his miraculous return, and he couldn't shut it off. "At what point does he lift a damn finger and help the poor bastards stuck down here?!"

"The lord works - "

"If you say mysterious ways, so help me I will kick your ass." Dean breathed heavily, watched the angel lift his hands, then drop them again, a strangely human gesture of capitulation, made completely unnerving by the lack of emotion behind it. Castiel's eyes met his, and Dean was awed by the frankness of their lack of care. Dean felt a desperate need to break the silence. "So Bobby was right? About the witnesses? This is some - sign of the apocalypse?"

Castiel sighed, and Dean felt stupid. It annoyed him how the angel could do little, and make him feel so much. "That's why we're here. There are big things afoot."

Well, that was ominous. "Do I wanna know what kinda things?"

"I sincerely doubt it, but you need to know."

And then Castiel was telling him about the seals, about the 66 seals, locks on some mystical door. And when Dean asks where that door leads, what happens when it's opened, Castiel's answer shocks him to stillness.

Lucifer.

"There's no such thing," Dean replied after a moment, his voice hoarse, throat dry. It just wasn't fair. No way is there fairness in a world where Lucifer can exist.

"Three days ago, you thought there was no such thing as me." Castiel's voice was even, low, but Dean could swear he heard the slightest edge of humor in it. As if Castiel was laughing at him, laughing at his human frailties and fear.

They were talking again, Dean swept up in this tide of news he never wanted. He barely registered the accusing words he threw at Castiel, didn't hear Castiel until the angel moved forward, invading Dean's personal space. "Our numbers are not unlimited," he said, his breath on Dean's face, smelling like peppermint, and licorice, and something else that Dean couldn't name, something far less sweet, and far more terrifying. "Six of my brothers died in the field this week. You think the armies of Heaven should just follow _you _around? There's a bigger picture here."

Dean leaned back slightly, desperately trying to gain control, trying not to let the nearness of the angel affect him so much. He didn't even know what was happening, just that he was trembling, and his knees had gone weak. Then, without warning, Castiel placed his hand squarely over the scar on Dean's arm, his hand settling into the grooves of the burn as if it were made for it. Which, of course, it was.

Dean bit his lip to keep from crying out as power tingled from Castiel's hand, biting along his skin like electricity. His knees began to give out and he slumped back against the counter, his other hand gripping the edge until his knuckles were white.

As Dean was panting against the onslaught of sensation, Castiel leaned his face directly into the human's and said, his voice low and dangerous, "You should show me some respect. I dragged you out of Hell. And I can throw you back in."

Castiel's hand convulsed, and then Dean did cry out as an unnamed, but overwhelming sensation ripped violently through his body. He sank to the floor, his eyes closed, trying to regulate his breathing. His body trembled with exhaustion, his skin tingling and overly sensitive. As his blood pressure began to drop back to normal, Dean realized the inside of his pants felt sticky and warm. The realization hit him with a mix of horror, revulsion, and awe.

Castiel had brought him to orgasm with nothing but a hand on his arm and a harsh word in his ear.

Cautiously, Dean opened his eyes. The angel was gone.

Dean stumbled to his feet, careful not to tread on Sammy who was sound asleep on the floor in the living room, and made his way to the bathroom. He climbed into the shower, letting the water pour over him, washing away the last of the sensations.

For the first time, the scope of what he'd been dragged into hit him, fully and completely.

And he had to wonder, how was this any better than Hell?


	2. Chapter 2

_**A/N: **__Only one review? Come on, people, we can do better than that!! _

4 - 03: In The Beginning

There he was, Alastair, oh God, _Alastair_, with that dangerous glint in his bright grey eyes, and the razor in his hand. And Dean knew that the razor was just a figment, that he had no body to harm, that it was his soul being torn apart, and not his flesh. But it didn't matter. In fact, it made everything worse, because you could shut out physical pain, Dean's father had trained him to resist torture, but damage to your soul, that was inescapable, and Dean could do nothing as the not-razor slid into his not-flesh like butter.

But that wasn't the worst of it, no, Alastair had other tortures in store for Dean. Because once Dean's flesh had grown back, once he was whole again, he would be chained into Alastair's bed. That was where the real torture began.

Because Alastair understood there was more to torture than just ripping someone apart, there were things you could do that could break a person, shatter them more deeply than any cut or slice.

That bed was the reason Dean had gotten off the rack. The physical torture he could handle. He simply couldn't handle what Alastair did to him in that bed.

But now, in his dreams, he was back there, on that hard, unforgiving mattress, as Alastair's slimy tongue slid over his body, probing places no tongue ever had before, poking and prodding and violating, until Dean was crying out, from horror, from disgust, but worst of all, from pleasure. _That _was the real torture, pleasure being forced on him, against his will, until he was begging for pain, begging for it to stop, then begging for release. Alastair would bring him to the brink and back, until Dean was begging to be fucked, begging to be touched, anything to relieve the awful pressure. Then Alastair would oblige, and Dean would come with a shattered cry and tears rolling down his cheeks, shame burning like bile in his throat until he vomited blood.

And then it would start again.

But this wasn't real, this was a dream, and slowly the room began to change.

Suddenly, Alastair and his filthy bed were gone, replaced by a darkened kitchen and a pair of bright blue eyes, and a hand on his arm, ghosting over the burned flesh. Soft lips met his and Dean moaned into them, tears welling up, tears of gratitude at his savior this person who had pulled him from Alastair's torture, this angel who -

This angel.

It was Castiel who held him now, Castiel who's lips moved over his.

The realization was so sharp that Dean awoke, his heart pounding in the darkened motel room. He waited, feeling a weight on the bed. Was it Sam? Had he been talking in his sleep?

"Hello, Dean."

Dean gasped and sat up, looking over his shoulder at the sound of the voice. Castiel sat on the edge of the bed. Dean thought he saw a ghost of a smirk on the angel's face, a glint in his blue eyes, like he knew some big, juicy secret. The angel's head turned slowly to look at Dean, and he said in a sly voice, "And what were _you _dreaming about?"

*************

Castiel watched as Dean saw his mother kissing the demon that wore her father's face, sealing her children's fate.

Castiel knew he shouldn't feel as he did, shouldn't feel at all, but he dared any of his brothers and sisters to watch over Dean Winchester and maintain a stone heart.

He felt guilty over what he did to Dean, that night at Bobby's. He'd forgotten what his superiors had told him, that the mark on the human connected the two of them, that they couldn't physically hurt each other, that any show of power on either side would be changed to pleasure. It's why a mark such as that is so rarely given. It renders the angel who gives it powerless against their charge.

He'd intended to scare Dean, to make his power bite across Dean's skin and through his body, to punish him like a master would a dog.

But instead, he'd inflicted intense pleasure on the human, and on himself. The moment he felt it, he knew should retreat, but Castiel had never felt pleasure like that, had never encountered something so primal. So he'd continued, until the human had climaxed, and sank to the floor. And then, he'd left, to seek revelation, and deal with the odd sensations rolling through his host's body.

Once it had been explained to him what he'd done, he'd vowed to maintain his distance from Dean Winchester.

But then, just that evening, he'd come to Dean Winchester's side, listened to his dreams, and found himself to be the star. So much for maintaining distance.

Yet, he'd done as he was ordered, had brought Dean back to the moment it all began, and now had to watch as Dean's already fragile heart broke again, watch as his own mother betrayed him.

Castiel couldn't take it anymore. He felt Dean's pain as a hollow in his chest. He just wanted it to go away.

Moving to the human's side, he place a hand on his shoulder. Dean turned, and the pain and tears in his eyes made Castiel frown as unbidden thoughts came to his head, thoughts of licking away Dean's tears. "I'm sorry," he said instead.

Dean's bottom lip trembled, and he bit it, and oh, what that did to Castiel's host. "What was the point?" he asked. "What was the goddamn point?"

Castiel shook his head. He could tell him later. For now, he lifted his hand, resting it on Dean's slightly rough cheek. Dean seemed shocked, then after several seconds, leaned into the touch, his eyes drifting closed. Then, before Castiel could react, Dean had caught hold of the angel's wrist, and pulled him into a tight embrace.

Castiel had never been hugged before, but understood immediately why humans did it so often. The warmth coming off Dean's body as it was held against his was powerfully comforting, and Castiel wrapped his arms around the other man, giving in to it.

It took him several moments, but he realized that the hug was no longer just a friendly embrace, that it had evolved into something else. Dean's hand now rested at the base of Castiel's neck, his fingers toying with the short, dark hair there. Castiel felt his hand do the same to Dean, felt the man shudder under his cool touch. Dean pulled back slightly, so that they were facing each other, nose to nose. Castiel saw something in those green depths that he'd only ever known on an intellectual level, something he had never seen nor experienced.

Lust.

Panic set in then as Dean leaned forward, his breath on Castiel's face, smelling of beer and spices, and Castiel didn't know what to do. He feared for Dean's safety, feared what his brother's and sisters might say or do. He simply couldn't stand there and kiss his charge, he simply couldn't. So, he did the only thing he could think of. The moment Dean's lips touched his, Castiel spirited them back to the present.

Maybe Dean would think it was all a dream.

*************


	3. Chapter 3

_**A/N: **__BTW, if anyone is wanting a soundtrack, I'd recommend Sarah McLaughlin's album __Afterglow.__ That's what I've been listening to, and it inspired this story. The title of it is a lyric from the song "Stupid". _

4 - 07: It's The Great Pumpkin, Sam Winchester

Dean knew it was Castiel beyond that door, he could smell him in the air, could _feel_ the angel's presence on his skin. Dean flushed bright red immediately as memories of their last encounter flooded his mind.

His mother, her father, Azazel, John... and then Castiel, Castiel in his arms, Castiel's lips on his.

Then Castiel had pulled a Doc Brown, and there they were in the hotel room again, and the angel acted as if it had never happened, as if he hadn't held Dean in his unnaturally strong arms just moments before. But Dean was distracted before he could be embarrassed, distracted by revelations about Sam.

His Sammy was dealing with a demon whore, his Sammy was indulging in his demon blood. His Sammy was breaking his heart.

His Sammy was pointing a gun at his angel.

"Sam, no!"

*************

Sam was confused.

His initial awe at being in the presence of angels had degenerated to shock and mild disappointment. They were rude. They were cold. They didn't like him. And it hurt to admit to himself that he'd expected them to.

After all, Sam believed in God. Shouldn't the angels flock to him, greet him with warm smiles and "God Bless"'s? Instead, they'd immediately deferred to Dean, as if _he_ were the righteous one, as if _he_ were the believer. Because Sam believed in God. He really did. Always had. He knew it, knew in his gut, that there was a God, and that he was loved by Him.

Now, His angles, on the other hand...

Castiel wasn't that bad. Self-righteous, but what else would you expect from an angel? Uriel, however, was horrifying. He seemed to take pleasure in the idea of wiping out a town full of innocent people. Sam watched Dean argue, pride welling up in him. Maybe Dean _was_ the righteous one, the good brother. After all, he wasn't the one fucking a demon, was he?

Then, Sam noticed something. Something between Dean and Castiel. Castiel came to Dean's defense, and Sam noticed something in Dean's eyes, something he didn't see very often. Dean was staring at Castiel as if he were completely and utterly out of his depth. As if Castiel was something he couldn't fight, something from which he could only run, run and run, and hide, and finally be caught like a frightened animal.

Sam knew Dean, knew Dean better than anyone, because he'd spent his entire life staring up (and eventually down) into Dean's pure green eyes, and trying to figure out what made him tick. Why is he so strong? Why is he so tough? What did I do to deserve his love?

And when Dean licked his lips, and Castiel noticed, noticed the way a human would, and titled his head, and when Dean glanced over at Sam as if just remembering he was there - Sam saw it.

Pure, unbridled lust.

Dean was lusting after Castiel.

Well, wasn't that just _perfect._

*************

"You know," began Uriel, his host's voice smooth as silk, "we don't really need this... Dean Winchester." He wrinkled his nose, speaking the name as if it tasted bitter on his tongue. "He's volatile, reckless, disrespectful, blasphemous - "

"He is the chosen one," Castiel interrupted. He stood under a tree in the park, his hands in his pockets, long fingers picking at the trinkets there. He'd inspected them many times, remnants of the life of his host, remnants of Jimmy Novak. Half a pack of fruit-flavored gum, loose change, a little girl's hair clip in the shape of a purple flower, the wedding band he's removed from Jimmy's finger after he'd taken control of the body, a movie ticket, and a small, heavy lead cross in a leather pouch.

"The chosen one," Uriel spat. "Chosen how? By his own weakness. He fell; he broke. And now, _we_ have to clean up after him."

"It is God's will," Castiel replied, his thoughts elsewhere. The words came so easily to his lips, he never really stopped to think of what they meant. His fingers toyed with the lead cross, mind full of green eyes.

"Is it? Is it really?" Uriel demanded.

Castiel turned his blue eyes to his brother. "Of course."

Uriel sighed. "Dean Winchester started this. He shouldn't have the right to finish it." He looked down at his hands clasped in his lap. "I should be allowed to kill him."

"It is long foretold," Castiel said, staring at his brother. "He who begins it is he who will finish it. Uriel, we need him."

"_You_ need him," Uriel snapped.

Castiel looked away. "What do you mean?" he asked, straining to keep his voice neutral.

Uriel laughed, and it was a cold sound. Castiel wondered how many of these simple, beautiful humans had heard that same sound before their lives were ripped from them. "You remember the stories; being around humans infects angels. Their weak emotions are like a disease. I've seen the way you look at him."

That particular revelation shocked Castiel, so he remained silent, waited, trying not to give Uriel a reason to doubt him.

"You look at him as if you want to climb inside, wrap him around you, protect and be protected, be safe and warm and _sinful_. You look at him as if he's water, and you've been lost in the desert." Uriel stood, turning to Castiel. "You look at him the way you look at God."

And with that, Uriel was gone, leaving Castiel to his increasingly dark thoughts.

*************

Dean wasn't ashamed he'd chosen to save the town. And he told the smug angel just that, the moment his blue eyes had appeared next to him in the park.

Imagine his surprise when Castiel had told him he was glad he'd done it.

"I was praying you'd choose to save the town, Dean." Castiel sat back, his hands clasped in his lap. The movement caused his knee to rest lightly against Dean, and Dean stilled a flash of lust that the contact caused.

"I'll tell you something if you promise never to tell another human soul."

Dean was immediately humbled by this, by the angel's willingness to confide in him. Not trusting his voice, he nodded.

"I don't know the right and wrong here, Dean," Castiel began, voice halting. "I don't know if you passed or failed. We are always told that our Father is loving and merciful - but then there are moments when I am reminded exactly how cold and ruthless He can be. And in those moments..."

Castiel trailed off, staring at his hands. Dean waited, holding his breath, not wanting to shatter the fragile moment, the sweet trust building between them.

Castiel took a deep breath, and continued softly, "And in those moments... I doubt." He looked up again, blue eyes scanning the playground. "I see these people, these beautiful creations, and I fear for them. They run about their lives, enduring hardship after hardship. Most come out the other side stronger, more capable. Yet they have no idea how close they came to death today. How close they were to being victims of friendly fire; how close they came to being casualties in a war they neither want nor need. It isn't fair, what we do to them." He turned to Dean, and Dean was shocked at the emotion he saw in the angel's eyes, emotion he hadn't thought the man was capable of. "How is it fair to wipe out an entire town of innocents who can't fight back, who can't even understand why it happened? How is it fair to never give them a chance?"

Castiel looked back down at his hands, and Dean knew he should do something, say something, but how do you reassure an angel?

Dean did what he would have done with Sam. He slid his hand onto Castiel's shoulder, giving it a firm squeeze.

After a moment, Castiel locked eyes with him, and Dean was struck by how utterly blue and clear his gaze was. He didn't think he'd ever seen eyes that color, and he wondered if it was simply the vessel Castiel chose, or if his angelic presence made them that way. Dean noticed a small lock of hair that had dropped down onto Castiel's forehead, and instinctively made to brush it out of the way. His fingers connected with the black strands and froze, marveling in their texture. His hair felt like feathers, soft and light. Forgetting to fix Cas's hair, Dean instead let the backs of his fingers trail down the angel's temple, feeling the pale skin like cool silk. Power danced lightly over his fingers, then down his spine and to places lower, and all Dean could think in that moment was if Castiel tasted as good as he smelled, cool and sweet. Dean felt himself lean forward and rest his lips and nose against Castiel's cheek. Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw Castiel's hands grip the edge of the park bench, his knuckles white.

And Dean knew then that it wasn't because he was disgusted. After all, if the angel didn't want this, couldn't he just leave?

Dean's mouth moved, planting a soft almost-kiss to Castiel's skin. He'd never felt so unsure, not even during his first kiss, his first grope, his first blow-job in the back seat of the Impala. Everything about Castiel was fresh, new, and ancient, and Dean had no idea what he was doing. He knew he should stop, that he was probably buying himself a one-way ticket back into the Pit, but at the moment, with angel's skin against his, he couldn't bring himself to care.

Dean committed then, fully, to his own damnation.

He let his hand trail down to Castiel's neck, his fingers tracing the cool skin there. Dean leaned forward and placed a kiss to the corner of Castiel's mouth. He saw, in his peripheral vision, Castiel's hands tighten on the bench.

Then, without warning, those same hands were buried in his shirt front, pulling him forward, and those angel's lips were crashing against his. Dean gripped Castiel on either side of his face and kissed him back, leaning him back against the bench, and his tongue grazed Castiel's and he knew then that Castiel tasted _exactly_ as Dean had expected him too, sweet and powerful, and oh so _good_, and he couldn't help but wish that Castiel's hand would untangle itself from his shirt and touch his arm again, settle into that place he was meant for, and speaking of being inside, Dean's leg slid between Castiel's, leaning him back further against the bench, and he moaned at what he felt there, angels _could_ have sex, not that Dean had ever wondered.

And just as Dean was thinking of motel beds and magic fingers, and a khaki trench coat spread across bad seventies carpeting, Castiel was pulling back, gasping, saying, "No, I'm sorry - oh God - no, Dean, I can't, I'm so sorry, I - "

And then he was gone, leaving Dean to catch himself on the back of the bench, leaving him with a painful erection, the taste of peppermint on his tongue, and a painful hollow in his chest.

Dean had tasted Heaven. And Heaven hurt like Hell.

*************


	4. Chapter 4

_**A/N:**__ I heart long reviews! *smashes readers over heads with hint* Thanks to everyone who's reviewed already, and to everyone who favorited/story updated. I've never had so many!! I'm really touched by the response this story has gotten so far! I just got the Season 4 DVD, so I'm working even faster, since I don't have to rewatch the episodes online now. So a new chapter should be coming very soon. Oh, also, I linked these episodes because of the "to be continued", plus I didn't have enough material to do them separately. That may or may not happen again; we'll see how it goes. Loves, Jane_

4-09: I Know What You Did Last Summer

"Sam."

"Yeah?"

"Too much information."

"I said I was gonna come clean."

"Yeah, but now _I_ feel dirty."

Dean was sinking back into sarcasm, trying to show Sam he wasn't angry, not really. He understood the need for comfort, the need for reassurance. The Crossroads bitch had jumped at Dean's offer; he couldn't imagine what he'd have done if no demon would deal with him. Probably laid down next to Sam's corpse and died, right there, together, like they should. Like they would, eventually. "I get it, I mean - well, no I _don't_ get it, cause Ruby - icky - but I get it."

"Icky? What are you, nine?" Sam said, a small, relieved smile playing on his lips. "Besides, she's not so bad."

"Yeah, you didn't see her face. I mean, her _real _face, her demon face. I got one word for you Sammy - _maggots_."

Sam snorted. "Right, and Castiel is just the picture of male beauty."

Dean froze, Sam's words piercing him like arrows, straight through to his heart, the way the kid always could. "I don't know what you're talking about." Even to Dean's ears, his words sounded feeble.

Sam laughed, that adorably gleeful laugh that made his eyes light up, made him seem fourteen again. "Dean, dude, I know you. I know you better than anyone. And I know when you've got the hots for someone."

"But Sammy," Dean began, trying for casual bravado and falling just short, "I'm not gay."

"No, you're not. You are firmly bisexual."

Dean scoffed. "What? Come on, man, I've _never_ - "

"That short-order cook in Eastern Oregon," Sam said.

"I was drunk - "

"The waiter in Massachusetts - "

"Hey, man, _he_ came on to _me_ - "

"The deputy a few weeks ago, when you had ghost sickness."

"I didn't do anything with him!" Dean exclaimed.

"Yeah, but you wanted to."

Dean sighed, resting his face in his hands. "Nuh-uh," he said, shaking his head.

Sam laughed again. "Dean, come on man, of all the things you could be bisexual is _so_ not bad. I mean, with the life we lead, you could have ended up a necrophiliac, or God forbid, a Barry Manilow fan."

Dean gave a reluctant chuckle, raising his gaze to his brother. "Okay, smartass, you've made your point."

"Look," Sam said, turning serious, "just... be careful, okay? I know you think I'm being reckless trusting Ruby, but at least I know where I stand with her. She has her own goals, and she's just using me to get there. I know that; I mean, I'm not naive. But these angels... Castiel makes it seem as if they care about you Dean, but Uriel sure as hell doesn't care about_ anyone_, let alone you. And I've got a feeling that Uriel is a much more realistic example of the average angel."

"What makes you say that?"

Sam shrugged. "I don't know. Castiel's just got an 'odd-man-out' feel to him. Honestly, I think he's a bit of a freak; you know, like us."

Dean smiled slightly. "God, I hope so."

"Wha-? Oh! Oh, _ew_, Dean. Gross."

"Prude."

"Jerk."

"Bitch."

*************

4-10: Heaven and Hell

Dean didn't believe it. "Why would you want to kill an innocent girl?"

"She is far from innocent." He'd never seen Castiel so serious.

"Don't worry," Uriel put in, eyes glinting, "I'll kill her gentle."

"You are some heartless bastards, you know that?" Dean growled.

And what was said next tore at his heart.

"As a matter of fact, we are." Straight from his angel's full lips. "And?"

_No_, Dean thought. _No, no, no. Not after everything, not after that day in the park, not after... no he is _not _allowed to say that!_

And then they were fighting, and there was a moment when Dean was terrified he'd be forced to fight Castiel, but Uriel stepped up, beating Dean's face in, talking about how much he'd been wanting to do it.

A flash of light, and the angels were gone, and Dean began to panic. If Castiel was dead, dead because of him...

But it was just Anna. Anna and her blood sigil. When he heard what she'd done, Dean was torn between thanking her and shaking her hard, and demanding she bring Castiel back.

*************

Dean slipped into the Impala's backseat, pulling Anna with him. He didn't want this, not really. But he couldn't have what he wanted, and it was looking like he never would. Anna was pretty, but he looked into her green eyes and saw blue. He stroked her thick, red hair, and felt feathery strands that were black in his mind's eye. She was smooth where he wanted rough, soft where he wanted hard. And when she touched his mark, he shuddered with disgust, barely managing to maintain his arousal. That mark belonged to Castiel, and Castiel alone.

It was with that thought in his mind, the thought of a tan coat and full lips, of blue eyes and a frowning face, that he came, barely managing to keep a cry of Castiel's name off his lips.

He slipped into sleep.

"It's so cute when monkeys wear clothes."

There was Uriel and his smug face.

"I'm dreaming, aren't I?" Dean was actually relieved. He'd rather face Uriel than a morning-after Anna.

"It's the only way we could speak, since you're hiding like cowards." Despite his words, Uriel sounded amused.

"You're off your leash; where's your boss?" Dean tried so hard to make it casual, but he could hear the note of desperation in his own voice. He just hoped Uriel didn't notice it.'

"Castiel?" Uriel looked around as if he could see Heaven. Which, Dean realized, he probably could. "He's, eh... he's not here. See, he has this weakness. He liked you."

And that was it. Dean was gone. He barely heard Uriel's taunts and threats, his sly comments about angel food cake. Castiel liked him. Enough so that it was considered a weakness. Dean knew it shouldn't make him so damn happy, but it couldn't be helped. He liked the idea of being the stoic angel's only weakness.

It wasn't until Uriel mentioned Sam that Dean returned to the conversation. "You know..." the angel drawled, walking slowly around Dean, his hands in his pockets, "I could simply... let Sam take your place. After all, you Winchesters are always so willing to throw yourselves into Hell for each other. I'm sure he'd agree immediately."

Dean's heart quickened and his eyes narrowed. "You soulless son of a bitch," he said. "It's Anna or Sam, is that it?"

Uriel smiled. "Yes."

So, in the end, there was no choice involved. Dean didn't exist without Sam; he just didn't work that way.

Sorry, Anna.

*************


	5. Chapter 5

_**A/N:**__ Hey, guys, thanks again for all the awesome reviews. I'm thinking, if people like this story, I might write a sequel. Sort of my own version of season 5. I already have some ideas. What do you guys think? Loves, Jane._

4-15: Death Takes A Holiday

"You can't escape me, Dean."

Dean's mind rebelled against this, rebelled against having to be alone with Alastair. Where the hell was Sam?

"I'm inside that angsty little noggin of yours."

"No, you're not," Dean said, and even to him, the words sounded weak.

Alastair laughed, and the sound was like rotting silk dragged over diseased skin. "Oh, really? You think you're that strong, boy? You think you can just _get over_ our time together?" He drew a scalpel out of his pocket, and Dean froze, old, built-in terror coursing through him. It wasn't supposed to ever happen again, it was supposed to _stop_, Sam and Cas were supposed to make it stop. "You know, Dean, after a millennia of this... I think I can safely say that _you_...are my favorite." He took a few steps forward, and Dean couldn't move, couldn't think. He was a beaten dog responding to it's master's voice. "You were so..._ pretty_, so eager. And the first time you picked up my razor, oh, that was a thing of beauty, Dean. Though, I have to admit..." Alastair's eyes narrowed, and a sick smile twisted his face, "I did miss our time together. You remember, don't you?"

Dean wanted desperately to cover his ears, because he knew what Alastair was talking about, knew that he wasn't talking about blades, or blood, but about a bed, and certain other bodily fluids. But Dean couldn't move, not even to lift his arms, not even to save his own sanity.

"Oh, Dean," Alastair continued, obviously reveling in Dean's pain, "I do miss that pretty young body of yours writhing under mine. And the sounds you made... mm, exquisite."

"No," Dean whispered, unable to do more, frozen with fear.

"Mm, yes," Alastair continued, moving forward. "Never seen eyes as green as yours, Dean. I must say I was tempted to pluck them out and hang them on my wall."

Dean looked up, met Alastair's grey, sightless gaze, and thought that he should have known. He should have known it was too good to be true; should have known the bastard would get him back in the end.

Blue lightning rained down from the sky, then, and Dean covered his face, ducking down in shock. When he straightened, Alastair was gone. "What the hell?"

"Guess again."

*************

Castiel had watched Dean being confronted by Alastair, and the boy's terror had been palpable. He'd wasted no time in capturing Alastair, sending him to the prearranged place. Dean had looked around with a muttered, "What the hell?" and Castiel couldn't help but reply with humor, humor he realized he'd learned form Dean.

"Guess again."

Dean turned, and Castiel could see the relief flooding his green eyes. "Have you been here the whole time?"

"Yes."

Dean frowned. "Why didn't you help?"

"Who says we didn't?"

"Uh... that rock salt shot into my chest was a pretty good indicator."

Castiel stepped forward, and felt a surge of some unnamed sensation coursing through his host's body. He knew instinctively that it had to do with Dean's proximity, but he tried to ignore it. "I'm sorry; we couldn't get into the funeral home. It was warded against us."

"Us?" Dean looked around. "Who else is here?"

"No one, now. When I captured Alastair, Uriel went with him, to secure him. He will not escape." Was that a glint of happiness Castiel saw in Dean's eyes at this news, this news that they were alone? Or was that just what he _wanted_ to see?

"So, these people... they're gonna just start dropping dead?"

"Yes."

"Cas, these are good people," Dean said, stepping forward into Castiel's personal space. Castiel stilled another surge of what he now recognized as lust. "Can't you make a few exceptions?"

Trying to breath normally, trying to keep his voice from shaking, Castiel replied, "For everything, there is a season."

"You made an exception for me."

Castiel met Dean's eyes, and when he spoke, he knew the words to be true, truer than Dean would ever know. "You're different."

Castiel saw Dean's green eyes soften, and was therefore caught off guard when the human grabbed him by the shirt-front and shoved him against the brick wall to his left. Castiel wondered for a moment if he should fight back, if Dean meant him harm. He stopped wondering that, stopped wondering _anything_, however, when Dean's full, hot mouth met his.

Against his better judgment, Castiel relaxed into the kiss, allowing Dean's tongue to probe his mouth, to sweep over his, leaving behind a taste of spicy fire. Dean moved forward, putting himself flush against Castiel's body, and his knee shoved itself between Cas's legs. Castiel heard a low moan, then realized with a jolt of shame that it had come form his own mouth. He fully intended, then, to pull back, to stop this before it went too far, but all thoughts of leaving were driven from his head by a hot, hard, callused hand slipping between their bodies and down the front of his pants. Castiel gasped into Dean's mouth when he realized how aroused his host's body was, and was immediately grateful that Jimmy Novak was, for the moment, unconscious.

Dean's hand palmed Castiel's erection, his own hips thrusting against the angel. Cas felt a heat building in him, low in his body, and his heart fluttered nervously, not knowing what was going to happen when that heat reached it's peak. He felt his body might just fly apart at the seams. Dean pulled back from the kiss and muttered, his voice low and husky, sending waves of lust through Castiel, "Oh, God, Cas... you're so beautiful."

Cas felt a lump form in his throat. No one had ever called him "beautiful" before. But Dean's mouth was on his again, this time sucking on his bottom lip, and Dean's hand wrapped fully around Castiel's erection, and the heat in him spilled over. A hoarse cry escaped Cas's throat as he came, and Dean followed with a muttered, "Oh, fuck, Cas," moments later.

Castiel sagged against the brick wall, and his eyes met Dean's, both green and blue fogged with lust. "Dean, I - " Castiel began, not really knowing what he was going to say.

But Dean shook his head, and leaned forward and captured his mouth again. This kiss was different, sweet, slow and unhurried, and it wasn't lust Cas felt from it. It was something else, an emotion, one Cas refused to examine. This had been too good; too fast and bright and glorious, and Cas was terrified to question it. He'd never felt anything like what had just happened, and for the first time, he thought he might understand Anna, might understand why she admired and desired humanity so much. If they could connect with each other on such a primal, fundamental level, Cas understood why it was one of their basest drives. He'd never felt alive, not really, until that moment.

Dean pulled back from the kiss and looked up, as if hearing something. "Pamela's calling me back," he said, voice hoarse. He looked back at Cas. "Don't..." he faltered. "Cas, please don't pretend like this never happened."

Castiel frowned, and was surprised at the hurt he felt. "Why would I do that?"

Dean laughed, but it wasn't an amused sound. "You've done it before."

He winked out of being then, and Castiel was left alone.

*************

"Done what before?"

"Hugnh?" Dean drew his eyes open at Sam's voice.

"Who has done what before? You just said, 'You've done it before.' Done what?"

Dean sat up to see Sam and Pamela staring at him. "Uhh... nothing. No one. Forget it."

*************


	6. Chapter 6

_**A/N:**__ Wow, a pretty long one this time. And there may be more to this episode. I'm not promising, but I feel like I have more material for OTHOAP. If so, I'll be posting the second part soon. If not, it will just be the next episode. Oh, and who saw the premier of season five? I DID!!!!!! And how epic was it? TRULY EPIC!!!! And it has given me new hope for Dean and Castiel. YAY!! Oh, and I loved the little reference to fanfiction and wincest. And that cute fangirl? That would pretty much be me. Except, I'd have been feeling up Dean. Oh, well._

4-16: On The Head Of A Pin

Dean trudged through the door of the cheap motel room, Sam at his heels. He felt every bit his age that evening, every inch his seventy years. _Lookin' damn fine for seventy_, he thought, but his heart wasn't in the humor. Forty years in Hell, thirty on earth, and he was sure he'd never make it to Heaven. It was a severely depressing thought, and it plagued his mind as he switched on the lights.

Only to see Uriel and Castiel, standing by the beds.

Uriel stepped forward. "You're needed."

"We just got back from 'needed'!" Dean snapped, anger making his sore muscles tense up.

"You mind your tone with me, boy," Uriel said.

"No, you mind your damn tone with us!" Dean took a few menacing steps forward, not sure exactly what he was going to do.

"We dragged you out of Hell for _our_ purposes." Uriel's voice turned silky, cold.

"Yeah, and what were those exactly? Stop Lucifer, the Apocalypse, huh, what exactly do you want from me?!"

"Start with gratitude."

"Oh, well," Dean began, but was cut off, Castiel speaking for the first time.

"Dean, we know this is difficult to understand -" he began, eyes and voice full of sorrow.

"And _we_," Uriel interrupted firmly, half-turning to Castiel, "don't care."

Castiel turned away, and Deans stared at him. What the Hell? Never once has Uriel interrupted Castiel, never once has Castiel backed down.

As Dean was pondering this, he heard a name he never wanted to hear again. Alastair.

"His will is strong," Castiel was saying.

"Well, yeah, he's like a black-belt in torture," Dean said. "You guys are out of your league."

"Which is why we came to his student." Dean's blood ran cold at the note of glee in Uriel's voice. "You happen to be the most qualified interrogator we have." Dawning horror came with the realization of what they were asking, but before Dean could react, he was swept away in a cold wind, grey feathers in his face, and the scent of sweet angel surrounding him. The last thing he heard before he blacked out was Sam voice.

"Dammit!"

*************

Sam paced in the hotel, checking his watch every few seconds. Where the Hell was Ruby? He slammed his fist on the small dinette table, wishing it was Castiel's face. Uriel he expected this from, but it infuriated him that Cas had failed to come to Dean's defense. What were they thinking? Dean couldn't do this; it was like telling a rape victim to rape their attacker. It was going to break Dean. Sam was sure of that. And he couldn't allow it. Not after he'd gotten Dean back, not after everything. He couldn't let Dean fall apart again, because Sam was sure that if he did, Dean wouldn't survive it. His psyche had so many cracks in it that the strain of torturing Alastair would break it completely.

A knock sounded on the door, and Sam stilled an empty pang in his body. That wasn't why he'd called her; he told himself that over and over. He'd called Ruby for help finding Dean. He opened the door and she sauntered in. "I can still smell them," she said. "Seriously Sam, I'm not exactly dying to tangle with angels again."

"They took Dean," Sam said.

"I don't see the problem," she replied, leaning against the wall. "You know they've got Alastair strung up six ways from Sunday? Dean cuts himself a slice, Alastair squeals like a pig, and the angels get their info. Everyone goes home happy."

"He can't do it," Sam muttered, staring at the floor. He was finding it hard to ignore the pulse in Ruby's pale throat.

"I know you're worried about him going all torture-master again -"

"No, I mean _he can't do it_. He can't get the job done." It wasn't entirely true. He thought Dean could get the job done. The problem was that if he did, he wouldn't be Dean anymore. "Just... just find him."

Sam tried to concentrate during Ruby's spell, tried to ignore the growing chasm in his stomach. It felt like he hadn't eaten in days, like he was starving. He knew what it was, knew what he was going to have to do, and it sickened him as much as it excited him.

"There's your brother," Ruby said, pointing to a section of the map that Sam knew was an old industrial district. She walked over towards the beds, leaning against the wall.

"Ruby, it's been weeks," Sam heard himself saying. "I need it."

"You don't sound too happy about it."

"You think I want to do this?" Sam walked over and sat on the bed. "This is the last thing I - but I need to be strong enough."

It was a lie. Sam knew it; Ruby knew it. The hunger in his gut grew as Ruby walked towards him. "It's okay, Sam," she said, straddling him on the bed. "You can have it." She kissed him, and Sam kissed back, feeling her pulse in her lips.

Ruby drew a knife from her boot, and Sam watched, transfixed, as she slid the blade across her skin. Blood welled up in oozing pearls, and Sam dove, clamping his lips around the wound.

Ruby's blood burst thick and hot onto his tongue and he drank it down, savoring the taste, the rush of fire that coursed down his throat and into his body, filling him with power. He sucked at the wound, drawing more of the delicious heat into him, his tongue darting across the wound, opening it further. Finally, a hand tangled itself into his hair and pulled. "That's enough Sam."

Sam surfaced, gasping at the power raging through him. It burned in his veins, down his spine, and behind his eyes. Pushing Ruby aside, he stood and threw his coat on. "I have to go get Dean," he said, his voice thick.

"Are you sure you're strong enough?"

Sam turned. Ruby was standing in front of him, arms crossed, chewing her lower lip. Without a word, he raised his hand, flexed his mind, and threw her back onto the bed, holding her there. "Sam, what the Hell...?" she gasped. He twitched his fingers, and her gasping breaths turned into moans. "Oh, God, Sam," she breathed, eyes closing against the onslaught of Sam's power. He flexed it again, and her back arched like a bow, and she cried out. He lowered his hand slightly and twitched his fingers again. This time she screamed as her orgasm caught her completely off-guard.

Sam released her, and she collapsed back onto the bed, panting. "What do _you _think?" he asked quietly, his pupils bleeding into his irises, staining them. He left without waiting for an answer.

Ruby lay on the bed, a slow smile spreading across her mouth.

*************

There he was. Alastair. And suddenly it was like every bad dream Dean had had since coming back, every horrible nightmare. Alastair was there, chained up in a Devil's trap. "Old Enochian", Castiel called it. Whatever it was, it wouldn't hold Alastair. _Nothing _could hold Alastair. He was made of terror and torture, made of the wet drip of blood, of tearing sinew, of screams and cries, the smell of rotting death, the sound of flesh against flesh. Once upon a time, Dean had been his own worst nightmare. Now, looking into that room, he realized how tame and safe his nightmares used to be. He was like a child fearing monsters in the closet, then discovering the beasts of war, famine, and hate.

"Fascinating," Dean said, proud that his voice shook only a little. "Where's the door?"

"Where are you going?" Castiel asked as Dean turned away.

"Hitchin' back to Cheyenne, thank you very much." Uriel was in front of him, then, in that way only angels had.

"Angels are dyin' boy."

"Everybody's dyin' these days. And hey, I get it, you're all-powerful, you can make me do anything you want. But you can't make me do this!" Dean's mind was rebelling against it, against the idea of being in the room with Alastair. He was alone with Alastair once before, and it nearly destroyed him.

"This is too much to ask, I know," Castiel said, moving towards him, "but we have to ask it."

Dean thought for a moment. He wasn't going in there; he was clear on that. But he needed to know why Castiel was suddenly deferring to Uriel; needed to know what had happened to change the angels' pecking order. "I'd like to speak to Cas, alone."

Uriel raised his eyebrow at Dean. "Uh-huh," he said, voice dripping with sarcasm.

"Look, if you want even a snowball's chance in hell of me going in that room, you'll shag ass and let us talk."

Uriel glanced behind Dean, and he wondered what the angel saw there, what Castiel's expression told him, if it said anything. "I think I'll go seek revelation," Uriel said finally. "See if we have any further orders."

"Well get some donuts while you're out," Dean snarked, but was disappointed to hear the roughness in his own voice.

Uriel chuckled. "Oh, this one just won't quit, will he? I think I'm starting to like you, boy."

He was gone, then, leaving Dean and Castiel alone.

Dean turned back to Cas. "If you guys don't walk enough, you're going to get flabby." Castiel just stared at him. "Well, I'm starting to thin junk-less back there has a better sense of humor than you do."

"Uriel's the funniest angel in the garrison. Ask anyone."

Dean would never admit to the swell of affection he felt at how adorable Cas looked saying those words with a straight face. "What's going on, Cas?" he asked, moving towards the angel. "Since when does Uriel put a leash on you?"

After a short pause, Castiel replied, his eyes on the ground. "My superiors have begun to question my sympathies."

"Your sympathies?"

"They say I've become to close to the humans in my charge. You." Cas raised deep blue eyes and met Dean's gaze, who flushed with a mixture of shame and fear. 'Too close' was right. It had never occurred to him that his and Castiel's little trysts would be noticed by the higher-ups. "They feel I've begun to express emotions," Castiel continued. "Doorways to doubt. This can impair my judgment." He leaned against a metal table, facing the wall.

"Huh." Dean nodded. Something had grown tight in his chest, like a coiled spring, and a lump was forming in his throat. He knew he was going to ask, knew that he needed to know, but dammit, he also knew he wasn't going to like the answer. "And, uh..." he began, clearing his throat. "And, what, ah, _emotions_...are you supposedly expressing... exactly?" He stared off to Castiel's left, dreading the angel's response.

Castiel was silent for so long that Dean started to think he wouldn't answer. Finally, when he was about to say, 'Fuck it, Cas, you don't have to tell me', the angel cleared his throat.

"I've asked myself... that same question," he said, his voice halting, "many times since we first met, Dean. And the more I ask, the less I understand. I don't... I am not accustomed to thinking in human terms. To relating with others on an emotional level. That's not to say that angels _can't _feel; we simply _don't_. However, since becoming acquainted with you, I have begun to desire emotion. I... look forward to our meetings. So much so that it is all I think about." His blue eyes met Dean's, and Dean's breath caught in his chest. "_You_, Dean, are all I think about." Castiel frowned then in that beautifully pensive way he had. "The only time in my entire existence that I have felt fear was in connection with you. Fear that you would be hurt; fear that I might lose you. Fear that you would lose what little faith you have in me; fear that you would no longer want me." His frown deepened, and he looked away, shaking his head. "I am as confused as you are, Dean."

Dean couldn't breathe. He felt like all his thoughts were spinning inside his head, like a tornado was roaming through his brain, carrying reason, common sense, a few cows, and the Wicked Witch herself cackling between his ears. "Look, uh, Cas," he began, "I'm not very good at this sorta thing. You can ask Sam; I tend to hide behind snark whenever a chick flick moment rolls around." Cas gave that half-smile, breathy laugh he had, and it encouraged Dean to continue. "But, um, I just want you to know, that place you're in right now.. well, uh, I'm right there with ya. And it's confusing, and scary as Hell - well, maybe not quite - and I'll be damned if it's ever happened to me before. But I'm there. I am."

Dean moved forward, and Castiel looked up at him, and the look on his face was pleading. "Now, I'm going in that room," Dean said. "Because I can be practical when I have to be. But I need to know that you'll be here when I get out; no matter who I am when I do."

Cas swallowed heavily and nodded, his hand sliding up Dean's chest. Dean caught Cas's face between his hands and kissed him. He leaned the angel back against the table, savoring the taste on his tongue. Castiel moaned then, and it sent waves of lust through Dean that were so strong, he pulled back. Cas, his eyes closed, tried for a moment to follow Dean's mouth, and that made the man smile. "Cas, we gotta cut this short," Dean said, his voice thick with lust and fear, "or I'm not making it through that door."

Castiel nodded. Dean pulled away and walked towards the room where Alastair lay. "Dean." He turned around, his hand on the knob. Castiel stood, hands clenched at his sides, his hair mussed, his lips red, painting the most beautiful figure Dean had ever seen. "Be careful."

Dean nodded. He took a deep breath, turned around, and opened the door.

*************


	7. Chapter 7

_**A/N:**__ Hey, guys, sorry this one is so short, and sorry it took so long. I'm already working on the next chapter, though, so hopefully that won't be as long._

4-16: On The Head Of A Pin:

Part 2

Castiel listened to the sounds of Alastair's agony filtering through the heavy steel door. It pained him to know it was Dean causing it, Dean making Alastair groan and gasp and -

Castiel had to admit to himself that he cared for Dean. As irrational, irritating, contrary, violent, misguided, stubborn, and damaged as the boy was, Castiel cared for him. The thought didn't bring him comfort.

He sensed the other angel before she appeared, before the lights flashed, and the wind rustled. "Anna."

"Hello Castiel." He knew that voice.

Turning, he said, "Your human body..."

"It was destroyed, I know. But I guess I'm sentimental. Called in a few old favors, and..." she trailed off.

"You shouldn't be here," Castiel said. "I still have orders to kill you." Even he knew how hollow his words sounded.

"Somehow, I don't think you'll try." Anna walked around him, staring at the door as Alastair's cries rang out once more. "Where's Uriel?"

"He went to seek revelation."

There was a pause, and Castiel wondered what to make of it. It was as if Anna doubted his words. "Right." She turned back to him, and he recognized the look on her face. He'd seen it many times when they'd served together. "Why are you letting Dean do this?"

"He's doing God's work." Castiel folded his arms over his chest. He didn't want to discuss Dean, particularly with Anna. She fell; she of all people would understand his plight with Dean. But Castiel didn't want it understood. He wanted it, _needed_ it, to be condemned, needed to be told he was walking sin. To understand it would be to make it okay, and Castiel wasn't sure he could let it be okay.

"God's work?" And Anna was off, spewing her rhetoric, the very lies that had convinced her to fall. Castiel refused to listen. He wasn't that far gone... was he?

"Unless... _He _isn't giving the orders."

She had cut to the core of Castiel's problems, his worries... his doubts. "If not our Father, then who?"

"I don't know. One of the superiors. But not Him."

Castiel saw a small, white hand come into his field of vision, and lay across his. He had to still an urge to throw it off; it felt so wrong. "What you're feeling," Anna whispered. "It's called 'doubt'. It's frightening, I know. But, together, we can -"

"Together?" Castiel yanked his hand from her. "I am nothing like you. You fell! Go." He walked around her, facing the door through which the heart of all his trouble lay.

"Castiel, wait," Anna said. He did, silently. "I... want to warn you."

"About what?" he snapped.

"About Dean."

Castiel turned, his confusion evident on his face.

Anna took a few steps forward. "His scent is all over you, Cas," she said, her voice soft. Castiel lowered his eyes. He didn't want to hear this, not now, not from her, but he'd known one day one of his brothers or sisters would force him to face his sin. "You're in over your head with him," Anna continued. "You've never experienced the sort of temptation that Dean Winchester can offer you, Castiel. Believe me. I know."

Castiel felt a chill in his chest. She knew? How _exactly _did she know? And what was that painful rage coursing through his body now? Is that what they call jealousy?

"It's temptation like that - warm flesh and a soft touch, and a whispered word in the dark - that led me to fall. I fell because I wanted to see what men like Dean Winchester could offer me."

"Was it worth it?" Castiel couldn't help but ask, meeting Anna's eyes.

A small, bittersweet smile graced her full lips. "What Dean Winchester is offering... he isn't offering to me."

And she was gone, leaving Castiel to contemplate his own damnation.

*************


	8. Chapter 8

**_A/N:_**_ Hey, a short one, sorry, guys, my muse abandoned me for awhile, but he's come back with full force, so hopefully I'll be cranking out the last few chapters soon._

4-18: The Monster At The End Of This Book

Dean waited in the recliner at Chuck's place. His ribs ached, and he could feel bruises forming on his back. All in all, he was _not_ a happy camper. Add to that the creepy way Chuck was predicting the future, and Dean was ready to fillet himself some author. When Chuck walked in, carrying a conspicuously shaped paper bag, Dean said, "Hello, Chuck."

Chuck jumped, and Dean took perverse pleasure in it. It was nice to be intimidating sometimes. "I didn't write about it, I swear," were the first tremulous words out of Chuck's mouth, and all thoughts of intimidation were replaced by confusion.

Dean stood. "Huh?"

"I never - I never wrote it down, and I haven't told Sam or anything, I... I never...", Chuck trailed off. He pulled the bottle of scotch from the paper bag, opened it with shaking fingers and downed two, three, four gulps without taking a breath.

"Never wrote what down, Chuck?" Dean moved closer, backing Chuck into the wall.

"I.. I never -"

"_What?!"_

"I never wrote about you and Cas!" Chuck cried, eyes closed, clutching the bottle to his body like a shield. Dean was stunned, too much so to speak, but it didn't matter, because Chuck just kept babbling. "I saw the two of you, saw how close you were getting, I heard your thoughts about each other - and Castiel's thoughts aren't nearly as pure as he'd like you to believe - but I never wrote it down, I was afraid... I don't know, I guess I thought it would make you look worse, the idea that you're sullying an angel, leading him away from God... but I don't think that's the way it's going, I don't think that's what's happening, I think there's more to it, I -"

Dean needed Chuck to stop talking, like, _yesterday_. "Chuck enough. Chuck, _stop_!" Dean grabbed Chuck by his shirt front.

"Dean, let him go." Dean closed his eyes, that rough voice cutting through him like a knife. "This man is to be protected."

Dean tried to arrange his face into a mask of annoyance, tried not to show how the angel's sudden appearance had affected him. "Why?" he asked, when he finally turned around.

"He's a prophet of the Lord."

*************

Castiel heard Dean's prayer, and took a moment to bask in the feel of it, to let the grace of Dean flow over him. Then, he appeared, because Dean asked him to.

But Dean, being Dean, set an impossible task before him, and watched Castiel wallow in his indecision. He wanted nothing more than to grip Samuel Winchester and rip him from this town, to dump him at Robert Singer's, to watch Dean's eyes light up with gratefulness and... affection. To know that he had granted Dean's desire, that he had made him happy, even for a short while. But he said "No", because if he went up against an archangel, he would lose, and if he lost, he would never again know the feel of Dean's skin against his own, never know the taste of that hot tongue again. Castiel, for the first time, did something out of pure selfishness.

And it nearly cost him everything.

And when the loophole occurred to him, it was like a bolt from the sky, and he didn't mind how needy he sounded when he said, "Dean", because something told him that this was Divine, that he'd been given this idea because it was meant to be. He and Dean were just, and right.

And he knew that wasn't true, knew that Dean was a sinner, and that he was an angel, and that for him to want what he wanted was a short ride to long fall, but Castiel was also learning the human trait of lying to oneself, of deceiving one's own eyes and mind, of believing the impossible.

And so Castiel believed in Dean's divinity, because he had nothing else to hold onto.


	9. Chapter 9

_**A/N:**__I gotta say, I've been waiting anxiously to be able to write this one, which is probably why I got it out so fast. I hope it's as good as I wanted it to be! Loves, Jane._

4-20: The Rapture

Dean breathed in the scent of warm honeysuckle, a light breeze coming off the lake, brushing across his face. He glanced around at the gold-tinged water, wondering why he was alone.

And then, quite suddenly, he wasn't alone. Castiel stood next to his chair on the dock. "I'm dreaming, aren't I?" Dean asked.

"Yes," Castiel replied.

If you asked Dean later, he would tell you that he had no idea where the urge had come from; but it came on him so suddenly that it drove everything else from his head. "Good." He stood, gripped Castiel by the front of his coat, and tossed him backwards onto the bed that was suddenly behind him, thanking the stars for his dream walking experience. They were in a hotel room now, a bland one, but the bed was all Dean really needed.

He'd waited long enough for this. Wallpaper wasn't really a factor.

Castiel seemed surprised, but only for a moment. It flickered across his face like the light off the water that still lay outside the window. It was replaced then by something darker, richer, and decidedly un-angelic. Which Dean took for what it was - encouragement. He took a moment to admire the way the angel looked - half-laying on the bed, propped on his elbows, his coat and hair mussed, face open, dark, legs splayed in casual debauchery. Dean took a moment - but only a moment. It was all he could stand.

Dean placed his hands on either side of the angel's face, and kissed him, his urgency evident in the swipe of his tongue, the press of his lips. Castiel answered in kind, his hands gripping Dean by the shirt, pulling him forward. They tumbled back onto the bed, which was much nicer than any real hotel mattress, legs entwining, hips meeting, tongues dancing, and Dean was shaking as hard as he did during his first time on that dirty couch with Cindy Marie Hanscom when he was fifteen. His skin felt hot and tight, and he'd lost all control of his breathing. And this was still only a dream.

Castiel moaned up into Dean's mouth then, and the sound sent bolts of lust right through him. He'd never heard anything so needy, so _hot_, and it made him want to move things along.

And the simple thought was apparently enough, because the next moment they were both nude, and the sudden feel of soft, silky skin all around him was so shocking that Dean bucked his hips a few times before gaining control. He was pretty sure he hadn't removed their clothes, and the thought that Castiel had done that made him bite the angel on his full lower lip, and give a moan of his own.

The thought occurred to him then that maybe he should take this slow; that his first time with Castiel, even if it was in a dream, should be long, and careful, and gentle. But then Castiel's lips were at his ear, and the angel groaned, "_Dean, _" and his long fingers brushed the handprint on Dean's arm, and all thoughts of being careful were gone. He gripped Castiel's surprisingly strong thighs, wrapping them around his waist, then wrapped an arm around the angel's back, the other hand tangling in the short, feather-soft hair on the back of his head. Dean's eyes met Castiel's blue gaze, and his breath hitched at the unadulterated lust he saw there. He rolled his hips, knowing as he did so that it would not work like this in the real world, where they would need lube and preparation, and slow inching in careful thrusts, but this was not the real world and Dean wanted, _needed_, to be inside Castiel _now_.

So his hips rolled, and he slid inside, and it was so hot it edged on painful, and tighter than even a normal virgin, and so sweet he tasted it on his tongue, and none of it compared to the sound the angel had made, the whimper that had escaped when Castiel had been breached, the widening of his blue eyes as he discovered what it meant to really be with someone, and Dean hoped to God (and wasn't _that _a fucked up idea right there) that Castiel, wherever he was, could feel this as he did.

Castiel's hands gripped at Dean's shoulders, his breath coming in pants. Dean rocked his hips, delicious friction where in the real world there would be the slick of lube, or the barrier of latex. Without that, there was just silky, hot skin, that fluttered against Dean's arousal with every thrust. "Nghnnn," Castiel's voice was thick and hoarse, "Dean it's... I... it's so..."

"I know," Dean replied, cradling the angel's head, staring into his eyes. He lowered his mouth, hips stuttering for a moment on the change of angle, and caught the angel's lips. Castiel moaned into the kiss, hips canting up to meet Dean's. He must have hit that golden place inside Castiel then, because he cried out against Dean's mouth, sound muffled, that lovely tight heat clamping down around him. He tried to hold back, then desperate for this to last, but the change in angle had caused him to press deeper, and as Castiel writhed, obviously nearing his peak, his hand clamped down onto Dean's scar. His fingernails bit into the burned skin, and that was it. The world went white as Dean came, his back arching, Castiel spasming around him, his own orgasm making him sob.

And when the world came back, Dean was clothed again, sitting int he chair on the dock, panting and sweating, while a thoroughly unruffled Castiel stood beside him. "Dean," Castiel began, and Dean could hear the lust in his voice, knew the angel had really been there with him, "we need to talk. Not here; somewhere more private."

"More private?" Dean gasped out. "We're inside my head!"

"Exactly. Someone could be listening."

Dean went cold at that particular revelation. "So someone... someone saw that."

Castiel's eyes met his, and they held a strange darkness that Dean didn't understand. "I hope so," the angel replied, and his voice was low and rough. "Here." he continued, handing Dean a slip of paper. "Meet me here. Now."

And Dean was awake, in his bed, in the motel room, tangled in sweaty, sticky, sheets, his mouth flooded with the taste of being inside Castiel.

He was _so_ going back to Hell.

*************

Castiel was being punished. Or "re-educated", as the specialists liked to call it. Whatever it was, it was dark, and cold, and painful, like icicles stabbed through his body, and it was being forgotten, being shamed, being unloved, being alone. He heard their whispers through a thick red haze of pain, whispers about sin and loyalty, and lovely green eyes. And he could hear Zachariah's voice, mocking him. "What is it about this human, hmm? What is it about Dean Winchester that could make one of my best and brightest lay on his back and thrash about like a common whore? You should have seen yourself, Castiel, walking Dean's dreams. You left your body in some filthy motel room as it writhed and moaned, as it thrust into the empty air, as it spasmed and orgasmed, and all for what? Precious few moments of bliss, followed by the inevitable broken heart as he leaves you for the next hot thing? And if your vessel had been less attractive, no pretty blue eyes, or pornographic lips, or twinky little body, would he have looked twice? How can letting that human use you, turn you into a filthy slut, possibly compare to the Grace of our Almighty God?

"Our Father is a jealous one, Castiel, and giving yourself to this human in such a degrading way has made him angry. You will be made to forget; to forget everything. To forget Dean, to forget this night, to forget the Winchesters ever even existed. Dean will be given a new angel, and _you _will return home."

_Home._ Castiel could barely think through the pain. Home, home, where was that? That was where... where there were green... green eyes, and full lips... and a burned handprint in freckled flesh...and Dean. "No," he said, angelic voice cracking under the strain. "Please, no... I don't want to forget..."

"It's better this way," came Zachariah's voice again. "You were about to give away the big secret; the endgame. It's no fun if you tell."

"I w-won't tell, I promise, I..."

"Why do you want him so badly, Castiel?"

_Why_? There was no_ why_. Because he was _Dean_, because he was strong and fragile and beautiful and flawed and everything. "He's... home." Castiel cried out as fire ripped through him, lava coursing through his being, the edges of his Grace crisping like flesh in hot oil.

"_NO_!!! _This _is your home! _We_ are your home!!"

Chains clenched around his wings, and through the fog, Castiel managed to think about Dean, and wish Dean had thought to include them in their little dream-walk. He wished Dean had run his hands over the feathers, through them, under them, because Castiel was sure he'd have come from the first touch of Dean's fingers to his trembling wings.

A slap across the face, and Zachariah's voice rang out, louder than ever. "Have you learned nothing? Even after all this, you still allow your mind to wallow in sin, your thoughts to linger on his flesh?!"

He had to get back to Dean. Nothing mattered now except that. And Castiel wondered if this was his first step down, if this selfish need for a human being was his first brick in the bridge to the Fall.

"You want to go back?" drawled Zachariah.

"More than... anything."

"Fine, Castiel. You can go back. You can even keep your wings. But if you tell him, tell him _anything_, if you so much as _think_ about touching him... we will remove you from him. And remove the memory of him from you."

As Castiel sank back to Earth, he wondered if maybe he should have just taken his Fall. For this, surely, was Hell.

*************

Dean was numb. He couldn't wrap his mind around what he'd seen, around Sam... God, the thought made his stomach roil, hot and sick, and his skin burn with shame, shame that he hadn't known. Looking back, he saw the signs. The withdrawals, the mood swings, the odd eating habits. But it hurt to think about for too long, and Dean wasn't sure how much more he could take. How much more pain, loss, grief, how much more _life._

When Castiel returned to Jimmy's body (and oh, poor Jimmy, Dean barely had enough room to think about it, but what that poor man who was not Cas went through, how awful), Dean thought maybe he'd see a little peace, a little reassurance. Castiel would tell him what he was supposed to tell him, they would go back to a hotel, they would make love (and Dean couldn't even bring himself to feel ashamed for thinking of it that way), and then they would help Sam. And everything would be okay.

Only Castiel wasn't looking at him. He was walking away without a word. And when Dean called to him, the angel's jaw clenched, and Dean shook as he asked what it had been, what he'd needed to tell him.

"I learned my lesson while I was away, Dean." Those eyes were so cold, and they hurt to look at, but Dean couldn't look anywhere else, even as he felt himself dying a little. "I serve _Heaven_, I don't serve Man. And I certainly don't serve _you_." And with a swish of his coat, and a turn of his back, Castiel had pulled the last of Dean's hope away, had left him sick, and empty, and too tired to feel the shards of his heart as they scattered through his body.

But there was still work to be done. Still a battle, still a biblical ball-game.

And for the first time, Dean seriously considered throwing the game.

*************


	10. Chapter 10

_**A/N:**__Sorry this one took so long. I didn't lose interest after the pr0n, I promise!! I just really wanted to do justice to this episode, which is one of the most heart wrenching I've ever seen, so it's been rewritten several times. I finally said "Fuck it!" and decided to post it, because if I screwed with it anymore, it would NEVER get done. So here it is, belatedly, but hopefully worth it *fingers crossed*. Loves, Jane _

4-21: When The Levee Breaks

Sam was not Sam. No, he _was_ Sam, but he was a different Sam. He was... was he the Sam who offered cereal prizes to his green-eyed hero? Or the Sam who bullied bullies, or the Sam who tried on his father's boots and tromped around until aforementioned green-eyed hero dissolved into tearful laughter? Was he the Sam who sometimes hated his mother for leaving, for creating his father, for not caring enough? Or was he the Sam who broke, the Sam who loved and hated and envied and despised and worshipped and sneered at the green-eyed boy who he tried to be, who he was always better than, who he could never measure up to?

"Never, never." The words were gruff, and though Sam was not stupid, no matter which Sam he was, he couldn't help but cringe at the sound of his dead father's voice. "Never be him, Sammy-boy. Dean is the best there ever was; he's strong and smart and better. And it took the horrors of Hell to break him, but you, m'boy... you were still here. You were still here, and you _broke_, you broke so hard, and into so many pieces, and you'll never be him. He doesn't trust you Sam, he's got that angel of his all set to replace you, and what did you get? A whore of a demon, who whispered promises of salvation and gave you blood and pain. And Dean? Dean tortured souls in Hell and is given an _angel_, a bonafide servant a' God, while you wallow in thick red and sulfur."

Sam covered his face and cried, heaving sobs that tore at his lungs, not because of what his dream-father was saying, but because despite all of it, he still wanted the demon blood.

And he knew that he may have lost his green-eyed hero. And what hurt the worst was that the blood was telling him he didn't care.

*************

Dean's skin crawled and writhed and burned, because Sam was in pain, and every instinct in him cried out for him to stop it, to kill whatever was hurting his brother, because this was _Sam_, and Sam was everything.

Except that he wasn't anymore. He used to be; before Dad died, before they caught Azazel's trail. Sam was the beginning and the end, alpha and omega, and Dean worshipped at the altar of Samuel Winchester, because that was his brother, that was his _boy_, that was Sammy-mother-fucking-Winchester, make way because he's gonna _be_ somebody, he's gonna be a big-shot lawyer, be a husband and a father, and everything Dean was too weak to be.

But then came Bobby. Bobby, and Ellen, and Jo, and Ash, and Dean's altar grew bigger, and he desperately tried not to let it, because the more people you love, the more you get hurt, his mother taught him that, pinned to the ceiling in her ripped and bloody nightgown. He wasn't even sure if his father knew, knew that he'd seen her like that, had seen what Azazel did to her.

And then came Castiel. Castiel, who had laid siege to Hell, had watched Dean torture the souls of innocents, and who had raised him up, restored his flesh and looked on him with grace and faith, things he didn't deserve.

And who had left him.

Like everyone.

Except Sam.

Dean loved Sam so much it felt wrong; how was it possible to love anymore more than the world, more than life, more than air and food and being? Twenty-six years ago, he'd been handed a child, cold and empty and waiting to be shown everything, and he'd failed. He hadn't taught Sam how to live; he'd taught him how to kill and how to die. And it occurred to Dean then that he'd never once, not once in all the twenty-six years since Mary Winchester writhed and bled and burned on her infant son's ceiling, not once had he uttered the words, "I love you." Not even to Sam.

Not even to Sam, dear _God_, what was wrong with him, what had broken inside Dean so deeply that he couldn't say three little words? Even to the person of whom they were most true, the only person in the world he felt really deserved them. Jesus, Dean was fucked. He was fucked in the head, fucked in the heart, and everything about him was wrong.

But he couldn't give in. Because even as he listened to Sam cry out in pain, scream and babble to people who weren't there, as much as it tore him up inside, he knew he was doing the right thing. Because his Sammy, _his Sammy_, would never want to be a monster. Never.

Small consolation when those cries rang in Dean's ears.

*************

Castiel could hear Dean calling him, felt Dean's pain like a knife in his own gut, but he hesitated. Being around Dean was dangerous. Even now, with his voice sliding over Castiel's skin from miles away, he felt his resolve wavering, felt desire well up in him. Dean was pure temptation, lust and sin and strength in a package of sinewy and freckles and bright green eyes, and Castiel wasn't sure how much longer he could stand it.

And then, quite suddenly, he couldn't anymore. And he found himself twenty feet from an angry, helpless, lost Dean Winchester, and it took every ounce of self-control in him to refrain from going to the boy, wrapping his arms and wings around him, sinking to their knees, and falling into oblivion. "It's about time," came Dean's voice, rough from abuse. "I've screaming myself hoarse out here for about two and a half hours."

As if Castiel didn't know, as if he didn't feel every single second of Dean's pain as his own. "What do you want?" It hurt to speak, hurt to move, hurt to breathe. For the first time, Castiel was experiencing hate. He hated Zachariah, for putting him in this position, for assigning him to Dean in the first place. He hated Anna for the few moments of earthly bliss she'd shared with Dean, while Castiel was granted only a dream. He hated Sam for betraying Dean's trust so utterly. He even hated Dean a little, for being so... _Dean. _And he hated himself, hated his weakness, his grace.

But most of all, and most painful of all, he hated God.

His Father was perched somewhere, watching a righteous man writhe in heartbreak and terror, the righteous man who... who will carry His most fearsome weapon. And He was doing nothing. Nothing.

Castiel had never felt his Father's absence so palpably as he did then.

And he wondered if it was like being human.

"Dean, I can't." he heard himself saying, meaningfully, urgently. Because he wanted Dean to believe, wanted Dean to know that he had no choice, that he lo- _cared _for Dean, and that all of this was out of Castiel's control. And somewhere in the back of his mind, he wondered if Dean still thought him beautiful.

Because all Castiel could feel was hate.


	11. Chapter 11

**_A/N:_**_ Final chapter, you guys. It's been a wild ride. Hope you enjoy. Loves, Jane._

4-22: Lucifer Rising

Dean wasn't sure why he was even trying. Castiel had made it clear that he owed nothing to Dean; that there was nothing binding them but Castiel's skewed sense of duty. But the Winchesters had long since perfected the art of beating dead horses, of believing in lost causes, of hope in the face of indifference. "There is a right and a wrong here, and you know it." Castiel had turned away, and in Dean's desperation, he didn't care if he violated some unwritten "do not touch!" law. He pulled Castiel by the arm to face him, saying, "Look at me! You _know_ it." Castiel's wide blue eyes met his, and Dean read things there, things that a month or so ago didn't even exist for the angel. Dean read fear, confusion, desperation, and something else, something less easy to define, threading through it all. Dean lowered his voice; the look in Castiel's eyes suddenly made everything more intimate. "Now, you were gonna help me once," he said. "Please Cas. _Help me._"

Castiel just looked at him, emotions the angel didn't understand filling his features, brimming over until it was all Dean could see. The angel said nothing, and Dean masked the hurt he felt with anger, dipping into that great ocean of rage he carried with him always. "You spineless, souless son of a bitch." He turned away, voice dripping with venom. "What do you care about dying? You're already dead. We're done."

"Dean-" the angel began, and his voice was so shattered that Dean had to cut him off, couldn't let him continue and weaken Dean's resolve.

"We're done," he repeated firmly. A rustling of wings, and a gust of sweet-smelling wind, and Castiel was gone.

And Dean was alone.

*************

Sam let the woman's blood pour down his throat, and with it came a bone-deep self-loathing he'd never experienced before. For the first time in his life, Sam hated himself. He hated himself with a passion normally reserved for Azazel, or Lillith, or hell, his father. He hated himself the way any righteous man hates evil.

Because Sam had no doubt that what he was doing was evil.

But it was too late now to go back, and why couldn't Dean understand, didn't he see that this was all for him? Couldn't he see what his absence had done to Sam, what Sam had been through, how much he _needed _this revenge against Lillith, who stole his brother and broke his soul? This wasn't power, or wealth, or pride, this was pure, cold revenge, because even though Dean was back, he _wasn't_ back, there was a hollowness behind his eyes, put there by Alastair, and therefore by Lillith. Sam lost his brother the day Dean went to hell, and what came back was a shadow of Dean, a man broken, and hurting, and lost, a man who enjoyed inflicting pain, and who shied away from his family's love. Didn't Dean see that it was _him_ Sam wanted, not Ruby, not the angels, not anything but _him_?

The words of sick encouragement and lust Ruby hissed in his ear made Sam's stomach roil and rebel, but he forced his revulsion down, forced himself to continue, because he had to kill Lillith, nothing else mattered, because in his mind, killing Lillith would make Dean whole again, would make him turn from Castiel and seek Sam's comfort, would make Dean fully trust him again. None of it made any sense, and Sam understood on san intellectual level that it was just his addiction talking, that the best way to help Dean was to stop _right now_ and go back to him, but the nature of flawed humanity allowed him to cling to his illusions and lies.

Ruby kept whispering in his ear about saving the world.

*************

Castiel stood for just a moment behind Dean, and _watched._ He watched in that timeless, ageless way he used to, the way angels do. Saw the line of Dean's back, beautiful even under four layers. He saw the grim set of Dean's shoulders, the muscles in his legs moving under worn denim as he reached out for the cheeseburger on the table. He saw the sadness and despair in inch of the boy, and dear _God_, he loved him. He _loved_ him, loved him in a way that was bright and wrong and painful, loved him darkly, loved him deeply, and loved him more than God. And Castiel was terrified.

And if he stayed on this course of thought, he might die, might stand there and burn up from it, so he made himself move, made himself do what he'd come there to do. He grabbed Dean more forcefully than was strictly needed, yanked him back and shoved him against the wall. He clamped a hand over Dean's mouth, and the confusion in those bright green eyes shouldn't be such a turn on, should it? Castiel tilted his head back, nodded ever so slightly, and dear God, Dean nodded back, he understood, _trusted_ Castiel, which made his heart clench, and other parts of him do a few more interesting things, but that was best examined later, there was work to do.

And Castiel took the knife from his belt, and let Dean go, and began the ritual. He felt Dean's gaze on his back as a physical force, but refused to turn until it was all done. Zachariah walked in near the end, but Castiel just soldiered on, finishing the ritual in the middle of his superior's surprised, "What the fu -?!" A flash of light, and the angel was gone.

Cas turned to Dean, then, and was awarded with a look of stunned incredulity. It suited the boy. His eyes should always be that wide, that sparkling, but Castiel thought his slack mouth could be put to better uses. A mouth that's open wide and speechless seemed like such a waste, especially a mouth like Dean's. "Dean," Castiel began, feeling oddly breathless, "we don't -"

He was cut off by that wicked mouth sealing itself over his, by Dean shoving him back against the wall, plastering their bodies together. Castiel moaned up into it, into Dean, but quickly regained his senses. He pushed Dean back and said, his own voice strangely hoarse, "Dean, we don't have much time. We have to stop Sam from killing Lillith."

Dean blinked once, twice, relief and lust clouding his thoughts. "But… Lillith's gonna break the final seal."

"Lillith _is_ the final seal. She dies, the end begins."

*************

No, no, no, _no_, _**NO**_, dear _God_, what had he done, what was that web of blood, why did Ruby look so smug and…?

"You've opened the door," she whispered in a hushed, mad tone usually reserved for religious fervor.

And Sam had _not_ destroyed evil, Sam had _not_ saved the world, he had unleashed evil into it, and suddenly his knees gave out, and why was Ruby still talking? Bile rose in his throat, and off in the distance, he heard Dean calling him, fevered cries of _Sammy!_ ringing through his head, but Dean never wanted to see him again so Sam was officially crazy now, hearing voices, and why not? If you set Lucifer free, it makes sense that you'd be crazy, right?

But then the door burst open, and it was fake, wasn't it? A hallucination, but whatever it was, it was _Dean_, heading for Ruby with a knife and a look of murder. And Sam was up, he gripped Ruby's arms as Dean thrust the knife under her ribs and up, and she shuddered in his arms in a sick imitation of the things they used to do together. He dropped her body, and Sam couldn't know, but as he mouthed, "I'm sorry," Dean was wondering where he went wrong. This was _his_ fault, it had to be, and no one told Sam what would happen if he trusted a demon bitch, and why was there no manual, no way to prepare, no book titled _Little Brother and Only Reason To Live Getting Manipulated by Demonic Whore_.

And as Dean thought about that, back at Chucks, Castiel was facing the bright light of his brother Raphael, and he was thinking of Dean, and how strong he was, and the feel of his stubble across Castiel's face, and how he was proud to die for Dean, because it's what _Winchesters_ do. Castiel was being ripped apart, and thought only of Dean, and how Sam might be alive now, and the world might be saved, Castiel might have had a hand in it, wouldn't Dean be _proud_ of him? Even as he died, Castiel felt his brother's disdain at the thoughts flying through his head, but who could blame him? No one understood unless the knew Dean, really _knew_ him. Dean was worth dying for.

And Dean stared into the bright lights of hell, and he smelled a few familiar and sickening things, and he had his brother's heart beat under his hand, so he thought of Cas, and hoped that he was okay, because if he lived through this, he wished nothing more than to hole himself up ina hotel room with Sam and Cas and never _fucking_ leave. Bobby and Ellen can come to if they promise to be quite, and ignore the occasion moan from Dean's bed.

And Sam felt, for the first time, a desire to die, because this was his fault, and he hoped to the God he no longer believed was listening that Dean would forgive him.

And still, the light grew brighter.


End file.
